


The Adventure of the Tragic Lead

by damozel



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Murder Mystery, References to Hamlet, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-14 05:28:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1254667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damozel/pseuds/damozel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes and Watson must investigate when a local leading lady is found murdered on the banks of the River Thames. The actress is displayed in grotesque fashion; a chilling parody of her last role as Shakespeare's tragic Ophelia. When a group of theatricals come under suspicion, disguise and intrigue abound. Can the great detective and his loyal chronicler see beyond the grease paint and reach the truth?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Grim Discovery

The events that I associate with the Adventure of the Tragic Lead began one bitter December morning as I breakfasted in the rooms at 221b Baker Street that I had returned to after the loss of my wife, and the sensational resurrection of my friend the great detective Sherlock Holmes. In such conditions my spirits became more depressed than I cared to admit, and the shoulder wound that I had sustained during my time as an army surgeon in the Near East ached intolerably from the cold. I did however strive to put my own discomfort aside, aware that my companion had been in a black mood for days owing to a period of inactivity in his consulting practice.

'I say old fellow,' I remarked, pointing to a headline in the morning paper announcing the fate of a vicious individual who had been out-foxed by Holmes some months previously. 'Young Fitzgibbon was sentenced to the rope at the Old Bailey yesterday afternoon.'

Alas my words were met with only the faintest of grunts as Holmes proceeded to dissect the very fine egg that our housekeeper Mrs Hudson had prepared for him, neglecting to consume it. I daresay I would soon have been driven to make my frustrations known, but fortunately providence was well at hand. My unwelcome attempts at intercourse were cut short by a rapid knock at the front of the house, followed by the unmistakable sound of somebody hurrying up the seventeen steps that led to our humble abode.

'But what have we here,' exclaimed Holmes, pushing his cold tea away decisively. 'I perceive that friend Lestrade has come to consult on an urgent matter. One so urgent that he has not waited for Mrs Hudson to introduce him more formally.'

Before I could ask how it was that he could be so certain of our visitor's identity, that very gentleman burst through the door.

'Mr Holmes, Dr Watson,' the Detective Inspector called by way of a greeting, removing his hat to reveal a damp forehead and even damper hair, thus unfortunately rendering his appearance more weasel-like than ever. 'I've just come from the most remarkable scene,' he began, still catching his breath. 'A young woman has been found murdered by the river at Wapping, but the body is unlike anything I've ever encountered. Of course my first thought was to fetch you Holmes, before anything was moved.' Knowing my friend as I did I was able to catch the brief smile that played upon his lips at this recognition of his prowess. Lestrade continued in his usual pragmatic fashion. 'Would you be so kind as to accompany me on a journey down to the river forthwith? I have a hansom waiting.'

Any last traces of depression were now tossed aside as Holmes sprung from his chair like an eager child embarking upon a Sunday outing. 'What do you say, old comrade?' he asked, reaching for his overcoat and topper. A light now burned fiercely in his eyes despite the grisly news we had just been party to. 'Will you accompany me on an adventure once more?'

We witnessed a complete shift in the character of glorious old London town as we sped towards the Thames, the town-houses and commercial thoroughfares giving way to the sprawling slums and raucous taverns that surrounded the docklands to the east. Just entering the neighbourhood led to a vivid recollection of a childhood walk through the Brunels' remarkable underwater tunnel, a memory so overpowering that I briefly forgot our grim purpose, instead imagining I could feel my brother's calming hand upon mine as we descended into the darkness for the first time. The spell alas was broken by the whiff of salty fish, tinged with something far more unpleasant, that somehow seeped through the carriage walls.

Despite the general bustle, the spot to which Lestrade led us was a relatively isolated one. The piece of ground on which the unfortunate wretch had been found was at a slightly lower level than the main pathway, and it seemed that the corpse must have been deliberately obscured from view. Upon approaching it took me a moment to fully comprehend the horror of the scene. A small woman of not more than five and twenty was laid out in a plain white cotton gown, her long fair hair hanging down to her waist. What was astonishing was the fact that the girl had been covered from head to toe with blooms of every description, surely hard to come by in these cruelly cold days. I reflected that she resembled more a princess of ancient times, mourned by the crowds, than the victim of a gruesome crime in a seedy backstreet of our modern metropolis.

'She's an actress by profession,' Lestrade explained, as Holmes stepped forward to make a closer examination.

'I am aware of that fact Inspector,' he replied curtly. 'Miss Annie Vanderham of the Eversham professional company, resident at the Gosling theatre in the West End. It is a little hobby of mine to keep on top of goings-on in theatrical London. Besides it is of some interest to me professionally. Where one finds those who mimic others for a living, there is perhaps unsurprisingly a greater than average incidence of crime.' This last remark I found to be a little rich given my companion's long history of disguise and deception, but as on so many occasions before I held my tongue.

Lestrade continued with his account of the case, such as was known. 'It seems almost certain that she was not killed here, as there is no disturbance in the surrounding earth, and it is obvious that she has been deliberately posed.' He stopped to clear his throat, betraying perhaps a hint of nerves. 'It's the manner of the display that is so damned discomfiting. Then one of our junior officers, a chap by the name of O'Donovan, has a theory on the matter.'

'And what, pray tell, is his theory?' asked Holmes, steepling his fingers beneath his chin.

'The man has observed that Miss Vanderham was rehearsing the role of Ophelia for an upcoming production of Hamlet. He proposes that she has been left in this manner in order to ape that role, her crowning glory so to speak. He informs me that the suicide of the tragic heroine is often presented in such a manner.'

'Your young O'Donovan may have some future in the Force, some future indeed,' declared Holmes with enthusiasm. 'But come, doctor,' he said, gesturing towards me, 'what is your professional opinion of this business?'

I approached, making a preliminary assessment of what I saw. 'The cause of death appears to be garotting,' I said, loosening the collar of the poor wretch. I would guess that she's been here for some time,' I continued, testing the rigidity of Miss Vanderham's clasped dead fingers. 'It is hard to assess the progress of rigor mortis, as owing to the weather she is frozen stiff.'

'She can't have been here so very long,' interrupted Lestrade, in the crowing tone that he was wont to adopt at such moments. 'She was last seen leaving the Gosling yesterday at around 4 o'Clock post meridian, and she was found at just gone six o'Clock this morning.'

'Very well, very well Lestrade,' muttered Holmes, clearly lost in thought. He then proceeded to make a detailed investigation of the body in his customary fashion, even going so far as to examine the soles of the poor girl's feet with his magnifying glass.

'Was there any other object found with the corpse?' Holmes inquired, returning his lens to his overcoat pocket with a flourish.

'Why it's funny you should ask,' replied Lestrade. 'As it happens there were a couple of unusual items. First we found a tiny wooden cross clasped in Miss Vanderham's hand. She was holding on so tightly that our officers had a difficult time extracting it. A sign of religious fervour, I suppose.'

'A reasonable supposition my good man,' replied Holmes with, I thought, just a touch of irony.

'Then there's this,' continued Lestrade, holding out a small metal box that resembled a tobacco tin. 'As you can see it's not engraved with the victim's own initials, but is marked "A O". It just so happens that O'Donovan has another interesting theory on this matter.'

'And what, pray tell, is that?' inquired Holmes with a smile. 'This O'Donovan becomes curiouser by the second.'

'He has suggested that the initials might relate to the Greek characters Alpha and Omega. This could be a further sign of religious conviction, if you recall the famous passage from the Revelation: "I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end, the first and the last." '

'I recall it well,' he replied inscrutably. 'This young officer of yours may have a bright future ahead, then again not.' To my well-accustomed eye it was apparent that Holmes was already hot on the trail of some scent, but I must confess that all seemed dark to me. Surely the killer knew his victim, or at least knew of her, as he was able to mock her latest theatrical role. Why then run the extra risk of posing the body in such a time consuming and elaborate fashion? Then there was the troubling matter of the tiny crucifix. Lestrade's supposition that she was clinging to it in devotion rang false even to my clumsy ears. Surely a woman being strangulated in such a violent fashion would have used both hands to fight her attacker with every ounce of strength remaining? Last, but by no means least trying, was the strange tin and its possible eerie reference to the Revelation of the Apocalypse.

The whole grotesque affair made my head whirl, but it was clear Holmes already had a fixed purpose in mind. Turning his back on the earthly remains of Miss Annie Vanderham, he strode back towards the hansom, leaving myself and Lestrade to follow in his wake. 'If it is at the Gosling theatre that she was last seen, then it is to the Gosling we must repair.'


	2. Backstage at the Gosling

The morning traffic was heavy, and almost an hour had expired before we pulled up beside the Gosling theatre. In contrast to many of the more gaudy West End playhouses, the small austere building seemed to suggest a certain artistic high-mindedness with its very architecture. 'I've sent my men ahead and instructed them to round up the individuals who knew Miss Vanderham best,' explained Lestrade, stepping down from the carriage and pulling his muffler around his neck as they icy breeze hit us. 'All should be made ready for you, Mr Holmes.'

Two gentlemen greeted us as we entered the theatre by the stage door. 'Shocking, a simply shocking business,' pronounced the elder man stepping forwards. 'Stubblefield is the name, manager of the Gosling,' he puffed, extending his arm. 'And this is Mr Crispian Ogilvy,' he added, gesturing to a young and extraordinarily handsome fellow who stood beside him, 'my leading man.' The manager appeared to be something of a dandy. He sported an elaborate twirling moustache, and had adorned his breast pocket with a garish handkerchief in accordance with the latest fashion. Despite his careful appearance, the medical man in me suspected that he was overly fond of the odd tipple. His nose was riddled with prominent red veins, and I judged that his body had run a little to fat. It was also apparent that our new acquaintance was not backwards at coming forwards, as the saying goes. 'I must declare that it's a privilege to be visited by a man of such fame,' he fawned, looking Holmes up and down. 'Of course the circumstances are dreadful ones, simply dreadful.'

'I'm extremely sorry to hear of your loss,' intoned Holmes, displaying the charming manners that he was capable of assuming upon such occasions, 'but as you are aware I am here to investigate an extremely serious crime, and it would be of great benefit to myself and my colleagues if you could maintain a sense of calm.' At this the theatrical manager seemed to stand a little straighter, adjusting his shoulders in the manner of a recalcitrant schoolboy. 'Perhaps you could start by telling us about the last time you saw Miss Annie Vanderham?'

'Why yes, yes of course,' boomed Stubblefield, regaining his confidence. 'I must however warn you that there's nothing sinister to be learned from Annie's friends here at the Gosling. The great drama with which we have recently been so occupied might involve a murderous plot, but reality does not mimic fiction so easily,' he pronounced with a dramatic flourish. 'From what I have heard this sounds like the work of some maniacal admirer.'

'Pray do tell us the details anyway,' probed Holmes, gently but firmly.

Stubblefield finally began his narrative. 'As you may be aware we are in final rehearsals for a production of Hamlet. We ran into difficulties last week when our director, Mr Sebastian, was obliged to return to his native Norfolk in order to attend the funeral of his dear mother. The two leads, Annie and Mr Ogilvy here, therefore arranged to come into the theatre at two o'Clock yesterday afternoon in order to run over some of the key scenes ahead of his return.' Here Stubblefield paused to rearrange his elaborate neck-tie, a gesture that I felt betrayed a certain masked anxiety. 'I was caught up in the office at the time. I'm ashamed to report that the finances of the theatre are not in the healthy state that I would prefer of late. At about half past three I grew frustrated at my fruitless attempts to balance last week's books, and stepped down into the dress circle to watch the preparations, as is my wont. Though not a creative myself I have been an admirer of the Great Bard all my life, Mr Holmes. It gave me such pleasure to watch the tragedy of Elsinore come to life on my very own stage, to witness the fruits of my labours so to speak.'

'You are quite sure that you saw both Miss Vanderham and Mr Ogilvy on stage at half past three?'

'Why yes sir. I had checked my pocket watch not long before.' Stubblefield squinted down at his timepiece as if to confirm its reliability. 'When I think of how beautiful Annie looked with her hair down in her final scene it brings tears to my eyes. I never knew an actress who could become Ophelia in the way that she did, her movement on stage was simply perfection to behold.'

'Quite, quite,' Holmes acquiesced. 'When did you see her next?'

'As it happens I never did,' replied Stubblefield wistfully. 'Several of us were due to have dinner together that night. Myself, Annie, Mr Ogilvy, and his fiancée Miss Liza Culpepper. She is also a member of our company and plays the part of Queen Gertrude, as well as acting as understudy to dear Annie. I believe that she is tinkering about somewhere in the wings, though I'm afraid she's taken the news very hard.'

At that moment a small woman emerged from the backstage shadows. She was neatly dressed in a winter bonnet, blue wool gown, and red shawl. Her features were plain but not displeasing.

'Miss Culpepper I presume,' said Holmes with a slight smile. 'I perceive that you have been listening to our conversation. Perhaps you could tell us more about the dinner party?'

Miss Culpepper went to join her fiancé. She rested her hand lightly on his, blushing. 'It is a little habit of ours to hold such gatherings from time to time,' she explained in crisp English tones. 'This is especially true when we are caught in the midst of a new production, and in need of some relaxation. Mr Stubblefield lives in a lonely old villa out by Hampstead Heath, and as myself and Annie always got on well with his wife these dinners became a great success. When Mr Ogilvy joined the company it was only natural that he should join our circle of friends. Why it was on one such occasion that Crispian proposed marriage to me.'

'A memory to be treasured to be sure,' declared Holmes indulgently, 'but things went a little differently yesterday if I understand correctly?'

'Indeed,' continued Liza. 'I went to find Crispian and Annie backstage after they had finished their rehearsals. It was gone four o'Clock by then, and we were due to leave for Hampstead shortly. When I arrived Annie suddenly announced that she had an urgent appointment to attend to. She scuttled off before we had chance to draw breath, and by the time Mr Stubblefield had joined us backstage she was already gone. We of course went to Hampstead anyway, seeing no reason to cancel the party. If I am truthful we were all a little put out by this sudden rudeness. It was so unlike her.'

'And what time did you and Mr Ogilvy leave the Stubblefield home last night?'

'As it happens we didn't. I was taken ill halfway through the evening and the gentlemen thought it prudent for us all to stay the night. The servant made up a bed in Mrs Stubblefield's room so I had someone to take care of me. The villa has several guest rooms so Crispian was also able to make himself quite comfortable. The sickness must have been down to a piece of bad meat as I was quite well again when I woke this morning.'

'Quite so,' muttered Holmes. 'There is but one further question, Miss Culpepper. You were Miss Vanderham's understudy were you not? Will you now take on the role of Ophelia?'

'Oh no!' she exclaimed with a small laugh. 'We made that arrangement a long time ago, before I was engaged to be married. In fact my association with the theatre will be ending shortly and the director is already looking for somebody to replace me in my role as Queen. No Mr Holmes, you must not think me some bloodthirsty adventuress desperate to advance my career on the stage. I'm an honest woman and I fully intend to devote my future life to my husband and family.' With that she bent to pick up a carpet bag that had been stowed in the corner. Her shawl slipped from her shoulders as she tried to lift the heavy object, which appeared to be stuffed full of pamphlets.

'I see that you have torn your wrap,' remarked Lestrade as she stood.

'That I'm afraid is an occupational hazard,' interjected Mr Ogilvy, joining the conversation for the first time. Like his lover he spoke beautifully and was dressed quietly and respectably. In fact he looked far less the Thespian than Stubblefield, and I briefly wondered what could have led such a pair to a life treading the boards. 'There are so many odds and ends lying about a theatre it's a wonder we don't all have accidents more often,' he continued, throwing an indulgent smile at his betrothed. 'It's just a small rent, and I'm sure that our wardrobe mistress will be good enough to mend it.' He took the bag from Liza. 'Unfortunately the two of us have a local committee meeting to attend. It's bad timing given the dreadful news, but we shall have to leave you now.'

'Your devotion does you credit,' said Holmes smiling. 'Now if I could just have a quick look around and we'll be on our way.' Before anyone had the chance to object he had slipped into the shadows, leaving myself and Lestrade to make awkward chit chat with the grieving theatricals.

I could not imagine what even the brilliant consulting detective could hope to find in that dark, dusty place, but whatever it was must have been quite apparent. He returned a few minutes later displaying just the slightest traces of satisfaction, and we said our goodbyes. Lestrade promised Stubblefield that the police would soon be in touch, then he also departed, explaining that he must return to the Yard in order to consult with his superiors. Holmes pledged to communicate any fresh developments to the Detective Inspector, but in truth I doubted him at his word. My friend would only ever reveal himself when he felt that he had full mastery of a case, and even then he often bade his time, waiting for the most opportune moment to tell all.

'What do you make of this business, dear Watson?' my companion asked as we stepped out onto the street.

I must confess that I was reluctant to answer. Too often had I been on the receiving end of my friend's sharp comments when my deductive skills did not live up to his high standards. 'I find Stubblefield rather irritating,' I admitted, biting the bullet. 'The fact that he is having financial troubles lends a certain air of suspicion, although his company couldn't possibly benefit from the death of its leading lady. Quite the opposite in fact.' I paused in order to gauge Holmes' reaction, but the man appeared deep in thought. 'Then there's Miss Culpepper. She says she has nothing to gain from Annie's death, but her protestations are perhaps not entirely genuine. She was still acting as understudy at the time of the murder after all. The good-looking Ogilvy also presents a problem despite his appearance of honesty. We surely can't write off the idea of a romantic intrigue. That's of course supposing that this outrage is connected with these theatre folk in the first place.'

'I think we can safely assume that is the case,' came the response.

I paused expecting some further comment from my friend, but none was forthcoming. 'We know that Annie Vanderham was killed at some time after four o'Clock yesterday evening,' I stated, growing in confidence, 'but this whole business of the sudden illness at the dinner party provides a neat little alibi for all. If I were you Holmes I would begin my searches with the Stubblefields. Is there any chance that somebody could have sneaked out and done the deed while the rest of the household slept?' I took one look at Holmes and braced myself for some scathing comment. His reaction was, however, quite unforeseen.

'Watson I believe you have hit the nail on the head,' he exclaimed, clapping me on the back. 'That is precisely how we must proceed. My good man you are scintillating today. Just scintillating!'


	3. Evil Wears Many Disguises

For the third time that morning I found myself speeding through the London streets beside Holmes, this time heading in the direction of the leafy Northern suburbs. But alas our excursion to Hampstead proved in vain. After inspecting the Stubblefield villa it was apparent that nobody could have left the house on the night of Annie's murder. Mrs Stubblefield was out paying a social call to a neighbour, but the housekeeper was able to assure us that all the doors and windows had been locked and bolted in the usual manner on the previous evening, and that the Stubblefields' two Airedales had patrolled the grounds all night. What's more, the villa was set in a remote, unlit spot, meaning that anybody wishing to journey from there at night would surely have required the use of a carriage.

'Be sure to tell your employer that I am quite certain all is well here,' said Holmes civilly as we departed, 'it may set his mind at rest.'

'Very good, sir,' replied the housekeeper. 'I expect to see the Master only briefly this evening as he is due to dine with his friend, Mr Ogilvy.'

I felt utterly despondent as we headed back to Baker Street. Our initial inquiries seemed to have come to nought and the mystery remained as dark as ever. I imagined that my friend must feel the same way as he spoke not a single word on the journey home. As we turned the corner into our own dear street I observed with some surprise that it was not yet one o'Clock. The weather had worsened as the morning progressed, and after our exertions I could think of nothing better than warming myself by the fire with one of Mrs Hudson's strong cups of tea, before settling down for an afternoon nap. I thought that Holmes too might wish to rest, but as ever my friend confounded my expectations. As we stepped down from the cab he suddenly came to life.

'Good Watson, I have a few further queries to make after all. Do enjoy some repose, and I'll be with you shortly.' With that he jumped back into the cab, calling some directions to the driver that I failed to catch.

Holmes' investigations must however have taken longer than anticipated, and dusk was beginning to settle upon the frozen pavements by the time he returned. He had barely removed his snow-soaked overcoat before I heard a flurry of footsteps, which were followed by a loud knock at the door.

'Wiggins!' Holmes proclaimed, flinging the door open to reveal three scruffily clad young men who appeared to be twitching with excitement. 'I am pleased that you have come so quickly, but have I not asked that you leave your friends behind on such occasions?'

'Sorry guv'nor,' returned the boy in a lazy Cockney drawl, grinning broadly. 'I just got a bit carried away. Why it was just as you said sir!' He handed over a small red bundle, accepting a coin in return. The boys departed in the disorderly manner in which they had arrived, while Holmes made to put on the coat that he had just removed.

'Watson, I am certain that our theatrical drama is almost complete. Would you care to join me for the final act, so to speak?'

He need not have asked. I was already dressing myself for the cold.

'And if you would be so good as to slip your trusty service revolver into your pocket? Evil may wear many disguises, and who knows what awaits us at Ogilvy's house? I have sought to give our players some sense of security with our little excursion this morning, but I fear we must move quickly or they may yet roll the dice.'

Holmes, with that uncanny foresight of his, already had the address, and we were at the place within the half hour. We were shown into a small parlour where Ogilvy and Stubblefield were seated at a card table, accompanied by their lady loves. The quartet looked up in surprise as we entered. Then Ogilvy stood to greet us, mustering an air of warmth. 'Mr Holmes, Dr Watson. What brings you here on a miserable night such as this?'

'My servants told me that all was well up in Hampstead,' interrupted Stubblefield with characteristic force. 'Perhaps you have made some discovery in another direction about the death of our poor dear Annie?'

'It is perfectly true that all was as I expected at your home,' replied Holmes neutrally. 'There are nevertheless some aspects of the case that I'd like to discuss. For instance the moment when you saw Annie rehearsing on stage at the Gosling yesterday afternoon. Or should I say when you didn't see her.'

'My good man that is preposterous,' retorted Stubblefield, standing and scattering his hand across the table. His wife, a tiny frail looking creature, looked on in horror. 'How dare you accuse me of such a falsehood? This is positively slanderous!'

'I am not accusing you of lying, Mr Stubblefield. But I'm afraid that you have trusted people you should not. Your companions here understand me.'

I turned to examine Liza and Ogilvy. The former looked completely unruffled and was wearing a pointed look of indignation. By contrast her lover had turned white as a sheet.

'Get out. Get out of my house,' he stammered. 'I won't have it.'

'Let him be,' countered Liza with a sickly smile. 'The man has clearly lost his mind, we must indulge him.'

'I hardly think so,' sneered Holmes, as cold as I had ever seen him. 'If you will not talk then I will tell all. Perhaps you will correct me if I go wrong? No? Well, all the same.' Holmes thrived on moments like this, standing before his audience like a conjurer about to reveal his tricks.

'The clue to this whole affair lay in the small tobacco tin that was found about Annie's person. A young officer named O'Donovan suggested a rather elaborate theory about the letters "A O" at the crime scene. Of course the theory was quite ludicrous, but that man's name was suggestive of the truth. It was quite apparent that these letters could only be initials, for what else does one engrave upon such a keepsake? As the owner was named Annie, it seemed likely that that "O" stood for a surname that she had since abandoned. Given that surnames beginning with "O" are relatively uncommon in England, but very common in Ireland, it looked increasingly likely that our tragic lead hailed from the Emerald Isle. I had the extra advantage of having seen Miss Vanderham perform some months ago, and already harboured some suspicions in that direction. You cannot be in this business for as long as I without recognising a sham accent when you hear one.'

'So who the devil was she?' demanded Stubblefield. 'She told me that she was born in Kent when I employed her.'

'Sadly her body offered further clues to her identity,' Holmes explained. 'The palms of her hands and the soles of her feet were covered with a rash, a sign that she was in the throes of a syphilitic infection. I spent the afternoon making inquiries about Annie's personal life, and it did not take me long to place her with a theatrical agent on Shaftesbury Avenue. After some gentle probing on my part he admitted that her real name was O'Keeffe, and that she had been working on the street when he met her. It was he who found her work with Mr Stubblefield's company, though he knew nothing about her early life in Ireland. He insisted that he was only interested in Annie's dramatic talents, but I am personally quite convinced that it was he who was responsible for the poor girl's miserable condition.'

'How dreadful,' I blurted out before I could stop myself. I was ashamed to recall that I had noticed nothing of the kind on the body.

Ogilvy and Miss Culpepper were both now affecting a lack of concern, but the Stubblefields appeared to be entranced by Holmes' narrative.

He continued. 'The fact of Annie's unfortunate past does not account for her murder, or indeed the grotesque manner in which her body was displayed. I had of course formed some suspicions, and these were confirmed by the contents of Miss Culpepper's carpet bag. When one combines the realisation that the dead woman had been involved in a less than reputable trade, with the stack of pamphlets produced by a Christian Society for the Suppression of Vice that were in Miss Culpepper's possession, the deduction becomes a simple one.' He moved closer to Miss Culpepper, and I thought for one wild moment that he might strike her down. 'Oh yes, the symbolism of the event was important to you,' he scoffed, meeting her eye. 'I expect that Ogilvy held the poor girl down while you forced the cross into her hand then garrotted her. Did you say a prayer and ask her to beg forgiveness for her moral lapses before you took her life? The hothouse flowers were an elaborate touch, and were perhaps intended to throw us off the scent by suggesting that this was the work of some obsessive admirer. All must have been carefully planned, and the necessary objects stored nearby.'

'This is quite, quite impossible,' interjected Mrs Stubblefield suddenly. Now that she was over the initial shock of seeing her husband challenged by the great detective, it was clear that she was not so meek as she appeared. 'Darling Liza was with me all night, and you have said yourself that all is in order up at the house.'

'That is because Miss Vanderham, or Miss O'Keeffe as was, was not killed yesterday evening,' Holmes returned with some fire. 'No, Annie was already dead before Miss Culpepper and Mr Ogilvy returned to the Gosling to act out a sham rehearsal. Exploiting the knowledge that Stubblefield would surely come down to watch at some point, Liza donned Annie's costume and a long flowing hairpiece. Indeed I believe that I spotted the very wig backstage at the theatre this morning. It was easy enough for her to play opposite her fiancé and copy Annie's movements, having observed the dead woman so often. They were even sly enough to notice Mr Stubblefield's poor eyesight, a fact that was obvious to me from the first time I saw him check his pocket watch, as was the fact that the man is too vain to wear eye glasses.'

'No, no, it cannot be true,' cried Stubblefield. 'I would swear that I saw Annie.' Despite his cocksure words, I read doubt in his expression.

'It was a most audacious scheme and the risks were high,' continued Holmes, pointing towards the guilty couple as he hit his crescendo. 'You banked on the fact that the body was unlikely to be discovered until long after you were installed at the Stubblefields, alibi in tact. There was a good chance that you would get away with it as the deserted spot you chose was usually only visited by fishermen in the very early hours of the morning. In that respect your luck held out,' he added with an ironic smile.

'This is but the wildest conjecture, you can't possibly prove anything,' spat out Liza, a look of pure hatred on her face.

'Can't I?' challenged Holmes, arching his eyebrow. 'One of my agents found this in an outhouse not half a mile from where the body was found.' He produced the small piece of red cloth that Wiggins had delivered to Baker Street with such excitement. 'I'll wager that it matches perfectly the tear in your red shawl, the rip having occurred during the murderous attack.'

Knowing herself beaten Miss Liza Culpepper turned and rushed for the exit, apparently forgetting all about her beloved. Upon bursting through the door she fell straight into the arms of a waiting police officer.

The rest of the tale is a matter of public record. Holmes' name did not appear, but his findings were used as evidence in court, and subsequently publicised. After making a full confession, Ogilvy paid the ultimate price for his actions. Culpepper escaped with a sentence of life imprisonment, claiming that she was under the influence of a powerful and controlling man. This last point always rankled my friend, as he maintained that it was she who had been the driving force behind the crime. From what I had seen I could not doubt it.

There is but one further aspect of this dark tale that may be of interest to the reader. As we strode away from Ogilvy's house that night, leaving the criminals in the capable hands of Lestrade and his men, I pondered what had unfolded.

'I do question the supposed good of religion at times,' I mused. 'I imagine that these so-called Christians meant to make themselves martyrs to their cause after giving up the theatrical life. They probably would have gone on murdering "immorals" had they not been caught, and been proud of it.'

'Was this about religion at all?' replied Holmes after a considerable interlude. I could tell that he was in one of his rare philosophical moods. 'Or did our Miss Culpepper simply resent the easy success of a woman she considered so much beneath her? I believe my dear Watson that the ways of mankind are rarely so high-minded as we should like to think.'


End file.
